


"Dear Digital Diary"

by GrowlingPeanut



Category: Borderlands
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Kinda, M/M, Other, Pining, Sex, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 22:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19327234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrowlingPeanut/pseuds/GrowlingPeanut
Summary: You work for the Calypso Twins, but you wouldn't really consider yourself acultist, per se. You're their video editor. And you have just alittlecrush on Troy.At least that's what you tell yourself.(Written for shanblackwood on Tumblr.)





	"Dear Digital Diary"

“Oh fuck, we’re gonna have to retake that—” He grins briefly at the camera, all sharp white teeth and sparkling eyes, before ducking his head, laughing.

Your heart skips a beat.  
You rewind.  
Pause.  
It feels like that smile is for you. Like those pale blue eyes are looking directly into yours.  
You take a screenshot. It joins the other thousands in the folder labeled ‘outtakes.’ You think it sounded innocuous enough.

Not that either of them ever go through your files—you’re one of the few people they trust.  
They have no reason not to.  
You’re just the video editor, after all.  
They’re the faces on the screen. They’re the voices on the radio.  
You’re not much more than a useful tool to them.

You press play.  
“—have to retake that—”  
A few keystrokes, a few clicks, remove the clip from the rest of the recording.  
_‘ >DELETE or SAVE?’_ the screen prompts.

Keystroke. _> SAVE_ Click.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“How do you always manage to fuck these up?” Tyreen sounds incredulous, but not angry. She punches Troy’s arm and he jumps away with an exaggerated yelp, then smiles. It’s equal parts dazzling and dangerous.

Your heart does a little flip as you play it back in slow motion.  
_> SAVE_

The next one is Tyreen’s. She mispronounces a word.  
“What’s that about _me_ fucking up?” Troy teases, repeating her slip-up in a mocking tone.  
“Shut it, asshole.” Again, not angry. Playful.  
He sticks out his tongue at her. Laughs through a grin.

You cut the footage.  
_‘ >DELETE or SAVE?’_  
Your hand hovers over the keys.  
_> DELETE_  
Click.  
You attempt to distract yourself with the rest of the video. Anything to keep from thinking about that slick pink tongue on your neck, between your lips...between your thighs.

Three hours later, you pause with your cursor over the power menu.  
Instead, you nudge it toward the little trash icon.  
Click. Click.  
_‘RESTORE TO “outtakes”? >YES NO’_  
Click.

\- - - - - - - - - -

It’s late. Your work had been easy, for the most part. Just fixing pacing, sound and color correction, little things. The twins had stayed professional—well, as professional as they could be, which wasn’t saying much. But they’d gotten their point across with minimal mistakes.

All except for the few minutes before the cameras started rolling when Troy had decided to _sing_.  
You’d never heard it before—the song—but you rewound and replayed it so many times that you knew the words by the time you finally forced yourself to move on.  
After cutting and saving the clip, of course.

He hadn’t been trying to put on a show.  
He hadn’t even been particularly loud—you had to adjust the volume and bump down the ambient noise to even make out most of it—he was just...singing for the sake of it.  
Fixing his hair, his eyeliner…  
_...singing._  
The usual frantic beat of your heart had settled into a gentle flutter—not the typical reaction when you saw him.

And now you’re leaned back in your chair, watching it again.  
His eyes are unfocused, distant, but not troubled.  
He seems calm. Content.  
That cloying warmth is wrapping itself around your heart again.  
You find yourself wishing you could touch him.  
You want to reach through the screen and run your hand through his hair.  
Trace his jawline.  
Kiss him.  
You want to feel him murmuring those lyrics against your lips, humming into your mouth—

You shove your chair away from your desk.  
Run your hands through your hair.  
Sigh and close your eyes and shake your head.  
You _can’t_ do this.  
You absolutely can’t let yourself _feel_ this.  
Sooner or later, it’ll start affecting your work, and if you give anything less than what the twins expect—if you’re not _useful_ anymore—

You stand.  
Close the video.  
Turn off your monitor.  
Go to bed.  
But not even sleep lets you escape from visions of his hands on your body, his mouth on your neck, his whispered words in your ear.

\- - - - - - - - - -

You wake the next morning to the insistent ‘ _ping_ ’ of your ECHOcomm.  
More work. Well, that’s a good sign.

Your breath stops—no, it feels more like it’s punched out of you—when you see the name of the sender.  
That single, simple, four-letter name.  
_Troy. Troy Calypso._  
You hate the way your fingers shake as you open the message.  
It’s semi-formal, all business, a simple request for more editing. He’s attached several files.  
_More work_ , you reassure yourself. _Just more work._

Still, it takes you the better part of an hour to finally sit down at your computer. But you do, armed with shitty coffee and a very fragile grasp on your willpower.  
Six videos.  
_DOWNLOAD ALL? >YES NO_  
Click.  
You try not to watch the progress bar.

Why in the _hell_ do you feel like this? Sure, you’d always had a _tiny_ crush on Troy—but so did a lot of people. _They’d be stupid not to_ , you think. _He’s tall and toned and dangerous and confident...and those **eyes** …_  
You sip at your coffee, grimacing against the half-burnt aftertaste.  
This _crush_ is getting out of hand, that’s your problem. And it’d come completely out of left field, too. Day one was, ‘oh, he’s cute,’ and now…  
Well, now you were _here_. Working yourself into a frenzy over the sight of his goddamn _name_.

A chime sounds, announcing the download’s completion.  
You gulp down the rest of the coffee, crush the flimsy cup in your hand, and start clicking.  
You recognize the setup from the thumbnails alone. New gun reveals.  
Some of the tension drains from your body. These are something you can handle. Granted, they’re more candid than the usual broadcasts, but they’re still not as personal as you’d been expecting.  
You fight back the wave of disappointment, rationalizing it away. Telling yourself it’s for the best.

“Hey, ECHOnet, it’s your favorite twin, with another shipment of kickass guns! Tyreen had something “super important” to do—”  
You smile as he claws the quotation marks into the air.  
“—so you get me all to yourselves…”  
He winks.  
Your heart flips.  
“Okay! So let’s jump right in—” He makes a face. Cocks an eyebrow. “Jump? Dive? Feels like I need something better than “let’s get started”—” More air quotes. “That just sounds lame.” He sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Your voice makes anything sound good,” you murmur to the screen.  
He sits in silence for a minute, chewing on his bottom lip, looking lost.  
The urge to reach out and touch him comes back, even stronger than before.  
And then the vulnerability is gone, replaced by the cocky, carefully-crafted mask of charisma and confidence that everyone else assumes is _normal_. “Okay! So let’s break down these new guns! First up, we have…”

Pause.  
Rewind.  
Click, click, click.  
_> SAVE_  
Play.

The rest of the video goes more smoothly, as do the next three.  
Not much to cut, even less to keep for yourself.  
You continue to fight back the disappointment.  
_Two left._ Just two more and you can distract yourself for (hopefully) the rest of the day—

The fifth video catches you off guard.  
It’s...not a gun haul.  
It’s not set up in a studio.  
It’s dark, but there’s enough ambient light to make out shapes.  
It looks like it’s been filmed from a personal recorder and…

Troy’s face slides into the frame and he’s _grinning_ , looking happier—and more devious—than you’ve ever seen.  
“Ty’s asleep…”  
It pans away, toward a vague shape across the dark room, before flipping back to Troy.  
You realize _he’s_ the one filming it.  
“...and, uh...the new skag puppies are harmless right now, so…thought I’d play a _little_ prank on her…”  
He creeps closer, quieter than you would’ve assumed, keeping the camera trained on the bed where Tyreen’s sleeping, clinging to a pillow and…  
You adjust the volume.  
...yeah, she’s definitely snoring.

An odd feeling washes over you.  
For the first time, you feel as though you’re intruding into something you shouldn’t be seeing.  
The twins, your _gods_ , are so...human.  
Granted, you’re smarter and saner than the majority of your peers—you know about sirens and relics and everything that could feasibly give them the illusion of divinity, but this still feels nigh-sacrilegious.  
He couldn’t have meant to send this…could he?  
You watch it anyway.

He holds up some sort of treat, then makes a show of placing it on the bed.  
After a few minutes, both the bed and Tyreen are practically covered and he’s retreating to the doorway, stifling involuntary laughter behind his free hand.  
You find yourself smiling along with him.  
“...gonna go release the hounds,” he announces as soon as he’s a safe distance down the hall, although the _giggle_ that follows completely negates any sense of drama.  
Your stomach curls around itself in a funny twist.

The camera shakes _horribly_ as he jogs across the compound, but you’re glad you don’t speed through it.  
“Goin’ to see the babies,” he sing-songs to himself once the skag pens start to come into focus.  
You swear your heart almost explodes.  
How the _fuck_ is he… _like this?_  
Does anyone else see this, aside from Tyreen? Do they know their _god_ is so...sweet?

He whistles as he approaches.  
The reaction is immediate. A litter of skag pups bowls out of the nearest den, tripping over each other and their own legs, yipping and growling.  
The camera dips—you assume Troy's kneeling.  
“Hey, killers...heh, yeah, hey…” He's laughing, scratching at their heads, letting them snap at his fingers. “Oh! You’re gettin’ big, Pepper. Yeah, not really the baby anymore, huh? Wanna go play with Ty? Yeah?” There’s a lower growl, somewhere offscreen. “Easy, big girl… I promise I’ll bring ‘em back.”  
With that reassurance, he opens the gate.

The remaining three minutes of footage go exactly as expected, in a flurry of hungry skag pups, laughter, cursing, and a few death threats from Tyreen.  
You watch, awestruck.  
They’re so playful, so normal.  
Again, _so human._  
Innocent, almost.  
The video ends with a mad scramble for the recorder, from which Tyreen emerges victorious. The screen zaps to black, cutting her stream of half-sincere verbal abuse off mid-sentence.

You stare at the replay symbol, vaguely aware of your reflection in the monitor.  
They wouldn’t know if you kept a copy...would they?  
Click. Click. Click-click.  
You name the duplicate something inconspicuous.  
Not that they’ll go looking for it.  
...but just in case.

Steeling yourself, though you’re not sure exactly what for, you click on the last video.  
The name doesn’t give anything away, none of them do—they’re all titled by filming date—and you can’t make anything out from the thumbnail, but you’re expecting another haul. _Surely_ the personal recording was included by mistake—  
...it’s some sort of reaction video.  
Troy’s own computer screen is the focus.  
His webcam feed is in the upper right corner.

“Probably gonna regret this…” he mutters. “But what the hell. Okay! The “horny for Troy” chat is officially open!”  
You pause.  
Rewind.  
No...you'd definitely heard him right the first time.  
“I want you to know you're all sluts.” He shoots a saccharine grin at his webcam.  
You feel the faintest twinge of guilt.  
“First question, here we go. ‘ _Starting with the obvious_ ’—ooh, watch that confidence, fucker—’ _dom or sub?_ ’ Okay, listen—” The smirk on his lips betrays his dramatic sigh. “These collars?” He yanks on the metal loop with one finger. “Not just for the aesthetic. But truthfully, I can do both. Next question.”

You fidget, acutely aware of how _hot_ everything feels.  
Your head.  
Your hands.  
Your thighs.  
It's as if half the blood in your body rushed north and the other half rushed south.  
It's fluid, fiery, desperate.  
You toss your headphones onto the desk.  
Push your chair back.  
Rake your fingers through your hair.

You imagine they're _his_.  
Gripping your head as he kisses you, forcing his tongue between your lips, claiming you, marking you.  
_You're mine_ , he'd growl. The words would rattle through your ribs, filling you up, making you believe them.  
And in that moment, they’d be true.  
Just you.  
Just him—

 _NO_.  
You have to control yourself.  
It's not professional, it's not _right_.  
Whether or not he meant to send this doesn't matter.  
It doesn’t justify…

You glance back at the screen.  
You wish you hadn’t, because your fleeting fit of common sense dissipates as soon as you see the blush on Troy’s face.  
It’s deep red, beautiful against his skin, splashed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.  
He’s laughing about something, reaching back to rub at his neck, looking down, long eyelashes fluttering almost shyly—

CLICK.  
That’s all it takes.  
A single, swift, definitive motion.  
The window closes.  
Your flustered reflection stares back at you.  
Your heavy pulse taunts you.  
Your arousal mocks you.

You ignore all of it.  
With more self-control than you've been able to manage recently, you load the edited videos onto a new drive.  
You'll deliver them yourself.  
Maybe that will keep the fantasies at bay for a while.  
Maybe.

\- - - - - - - - - -

You find him in the antechamber of the throne room.  
Not the most private place, but maybe that's for the best.  
It was always funny to you, how your reactions mellowed when you were actually, physically close to him.  
It was a blessing, you supposed.  
You doubted you'd have a job if you turned into an incoherent, fumbling mess whenever you looked at him.

“You could have just sent them back,” he mutters, plucking the microdrives from your hands. “But whatever. Thanks.”

You nod, though he probably misses it as he turns to look back through the door to the throne room.  
Tyreen is readying for a hearing.  
You chew your lip, unsure how to broach the subject really on your mind.  
_To hell with it._  
“Did you mean to send—?”

“Shit.” His focus returns to you. “You got more than the gun hauls, huh?”

“...yeah. I didn't do anything to them.” It isn't a lie. The original videos are still intact.

“But...you watched them?” One eyebrow quirks. He doesn't seem angry.

You nod. And take a risk. “They were kind of endearing.”  
You keep your completely unprofessional reactions to yourself.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Don’t hear that a lot.”

“Troy!” Tyreen’s voice barks from the throne room. It cuts into the air between the two of you. “C’mon!”

He rolls his eyes and pockets the microdrives. “Thanks again. Wish I could stick around to hear more of your compliments, but…” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Godhood calls.”

His bootsteps fade, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and deceptively-calm heartbeat.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The rest of the day is uneventful, you busy yourself with software updates and routine server maintenance. It’s easy, menial work, but it’s enough to keep your thoughts from wandering too far in any direction. Maybe you’d been right, maybe seeing Troy in person had been enough to take the edge off—

Your ECHO pings again and you nearly jump out of your skin.  
_Meet me in Studio B. Troy._  
You read it again.  
And again.  
And once more to be sure.  
And then you obey.

Your heartbeat isn’t so calm this time.  
What does he want?  
Had you made a mistake?  
Said something wrong?

The studio is dim when you arrive, just a few low lights flicked on behind the booth.  
Troy’s waiting, his feet kicked up on the mixing desk, fiddling with his ECHO.  
The door creaks as you enter.  
You cringe.

“That was fast.”

“An order’s an order.”

He watches you for a long moment, then hums.  
“I’m not blind, you know.”

“I—”  
_What? You know that, what is he—?_

“ _Or_ stupid.”  
He stands, faster and more fluidly than you’re anticipating.  
In a second, he’s right in front of you.  
“I know _exactly_ how you feel when you’re around me.”  
His voice has dropped to a whisper and your stubborn, stupid, misbehaving heart—  
“I hear the way your pulse _skyrockets_ when you think about what you want me to do to you.”

You blink.  
Swallow.  
Is this _actually_ happening?  
Warm, human fingers press under your chin, tilting your head, forcing you to look at him.  
There’s mischief dancing behind his pale eyes.

“Stop trying to hide it.”

“I—is that an order?”

His razor-sharp grin is enough of an answer.  
And then it happens.  
Those coy lips are pressed to yours.  
That hot, pink tongue that had invaded so many of your wet dreams is now invading your mouth.  
He’s gripping the back of your neck.  
Tugging at your hair.  
Moaning and growling and _laughing_ —and the sounds are bouncing around your ribcage.

The surrealism of it all flips an interesting switch in your mind.  
In all your daydreams, every fantasy, you’d assumed you’d be paralyzed with shock in a situation like this.  
Frozen in awe and disbelief.  
Pliable and soft in his hands.  
Instead?  
You go _wild_.

All your actions blur into a haze of sensations.  
His teeth on your neck, biting deep, drawing blood.  
Your hands running over the sleek lines of muscle that define his body.  
The jagged tearing of cloth as _something_ is ripped off.  
His knee between your legs.  
The world spinning as you’re lifted and pushed onto your back.  
You hardly notice the jabs of the knobs and switches on the instrument panel beneath you—your legs are wrapped around his hips and you’re _clinging to him_ with all the strength you can muster.

Frantic, desperate fingers tug at your belt, slide inside you, curl forward.  
Stars bloom behind your eyes.  
You moan.  
He growls.  
Panted, breathless exclamations ricochet between you.  
Names are chanted, recited like prayers.

You’re wide open and ready for him by the time he thrusts up into you.  
Quick, needy.  
You move with him effortlessly, rocking up to meet his hips, digging your fingers into his back.  
All you can do is _feel_.  
Feel his body, feel his lips, feel his breath whispering over your neck as he leans down, pushing deeper.  
And finally—

It breaks.  
Tension releases.  
Heavy breaths mingle with sighs and feather-soft kisses.  
_Bliss_.  


\- - - - - - - - - -

You wake up groggy.  
Sore.  
Not naked, but you may as well have been because you know this feeling.  
You’d definitely had a good, thorough fucking.  
There isn’t enough fog in your brain to make you forget who’d done it, either.  
He knew how you felt and he’d…  
God _damn_ , had he done something about it.  
You swear you can still feel the echoes of your orgasm throbbing between your legs and you wonder how long ago—

A brisk knock at the door nearly kills the mood.  
You scramble from your bed, praying that none of the… _evidence_...of your rendezvous would be apparent to whoever—  
It’s Troy.  
Heat blossoms in your face.

There’s a lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips. “Sleep okay?”

 _Fuck it._  
“Would’ve been better with you.”  
You don’t even attempt to maintain a normal pulse rate anymore.

His eyebrows arch.  
His smirk grows wider, showing teeth.  
The faintest hint of crimson colors his cheekbones.  
“Is that an invitation?”

You shrug. _Keep cool!_ “If you want.”

He nods. Bites his lip. “I’ll, uh...keep that in mind. But, here, in the meantime…” He pulls a microdrive from his pocket and holds it out to you. “It’s not work, it’s…you’ll see.”

You take it, letting your fingers brush his palm.  
You don’t miss the way his blush spreads.  
Still so goddamn cute.

“I’ve gotta go, but...watch that tonight. Tell me what you think.”

“An order?”

He winks.

\- - - - - - - - - -

You settle into your chair and load the microdrive.  
One file.  
Click-click.

You recognize the setup immediately.  
It’s Studio B.  
And there’s Troy.  
You’re fully expecting what comes next, but you still groan when you hear the door creak open and you step into view of the camera.  
Of _course_ he’d filmed it.  
You’re not surprised in the least.

It’s...comforting, though, how you can allow yourself to watch this without trying to school your emotions.  
He’d made this for _you_.  
He’d _given_ you what you wanted.  
He _knew_.  
You don’t stop—you don’t _have_ to stop—yourself from curling up in your chair, biting your knuckles, blushing, and…  
...yes, you’ll admit it—touching yourself while you watch.

The two of you look good from this angle.  
You don’t remember pushing his coat off, but there it goes, crumpling to the floor, revealing his bare back as he lifts you onto the table.  
From here, you can see his cybernetic spinal support, glowing with dim red light when he dips down to grind against you.  
You want to touch it.  
You’re surprised you didn’t.  
_Maybe next time…_

For once, the fantasy of there even _being_ a “next time” fills you with warm hope.  
Unless you’ve been reading him wrong, he seems...interested.  
It makes you giddy.  
It makes you feel as though all of your initial reactions are justified.  
Now that you know he’s reciprocating.

You feel like you’re dreaming, watching all of this play out on the screen.  
Those are _your_ hands scratching red lines down his shoulder blades.  
_Your_ limbs tangled with his, wrapped around him.  
_Your_ body moving perfectly, fluidly, rhythmically beneath his.  
_Your_ voice panting out his name like an absolution.

And his voice doing the same with yours.

You stay there, curled in your chair, one hand trailing idly over your thighs, long after the last of your cries have faded.  
After he cradled you to his chest and helped you back to your feet.  
After the video ended.

It’s all real, you know that, but it feels like it shouldn’t be.  
He hadn’t even really known who you were until yesterday.  
Had he?  
You guess it doesn’t really matter.  
You’re both getting what you want, but…  
...deep down, you’re hoping it’s not that shallow.

\- - - - - - - - - -

He finds you in the morning.  
You’re back in the server room, allowing your thoughts to sort themselves out.  
At least…  
...that was the plan.  
Until you hear his voice.

“So...what’d ya think?”

You don’t look at him at first.  
Your hands work with swift, practiced motions, tying a bundle of wires together.  
You’re not ashamed of the way your heart skips anymore, but what are you supposed to say to something like _that_?  
“Kinky,” you manage to joke.

He sighs, but there’s a hint of a laugh at the end of it.  
“And here I was expecting some quality constructive criticism.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t work.”

“You know what I mean.”

You watch him out of the corner of your eye.  
There’s nothing to lean on; his hands are fiddling awkwardly.  
He’s shifting his weight from one leg to the other.  
He seems expectant.

You finally look up, meeting his eyes.  
Your heart is racing, as usual.  
Not with anxiety or anticipation.  
With newfound hope.  
With affection.  
A smirk tugs at your lips.  
“Maybe a better angle next time? Not that the one you chose was _bad_ …”

And then he does it.  
He ducks his head, laughing, exactly the same way he’d done in countless videos, in hundreds of cut and saved clips.  
That same scarlet blush adorns his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.  
And you fall in love all over again.


End file.
